No Foul Games
by Keith Koenar
Summary: 'At that exact moment Altaïr concluded that, yes, it was all just a game to him. Hide and seek.' Somehow, a Templar and an Assassin end up in need of each other. All they knew was that it could end bad. And it did. Altair/OMC Slash, yaoi, M
1. Chapter 1: Endings

Chapter One

The dry dust hung in the air and was captured by the sun-rays cutting through the otherwise dimly lit tunnel. The smell of hot summer days filled the alley covered from above by a large drapery of dark color. Even though the street gave shade from the burning sun, neither beggars nor citizens were present, only two men at a careful distance; Assassin and Templar, born enemies 'til the end of times.

Altaïr and the Templar stood, facing each other, staring at each other, keeping the silence around them as if it were sacred. The Templar looked like any other 'man of god'; armor, white tunica with the red cross and the typical Templar helmet. However, Altaïr knew better than to call Marcella a typical Templar. His armor, as shining as it was, weighed the man down. The tunica was greasy and covered in grime, the cross placed on it looking more like a bloodstain, and his helmet was held under his arm, leaving him vulnerable, in an act of trust. His face also differed from any other Templars' face who had gained his rank. Marcella did not wear a single scar, but the greying hair at his temples was indeed a sign of age, contrasting to the deep raven hair that reared up at his forehead like a two-inch big wave, and the short beard that barely covered his chin. And those slanted eyes. Oh, those wonderful eyes! In time, Altaïr had learned to get lost in those olive eyes, and this time was no different, as they faced each other, merely a few feet apart, unmoving.

They remained like that for several minutes, just staring, as if enjoying the other's emotions in those deep eyes, but they knew better. Yes, both their eyes reflected their emotions, but they were hardly enjoyable. Anxiety, sadness and fear. Terrible fear. The absolute fear of losing, losing each other, losing their sacred silence, losing their lives.

The Assassin shifted, the gravel under him crunching, and the sacred silence was broken. The Italian man still fixed his eyes as Altaïr made the move of turning half-way. It was only then that he saw the tears brimmed and blurred Marcella's vision. His insides tightened as he made two quick strides and took the taller man's face between his hands, crushing their lips together in a desperate kiss. In an attempt to bring them closer, Marcella seized the Assassin's uniform and pulled, ignoring the sound of his helmet hitting the ground, leaning forward, putting pressure on his lips while salty tears ran down his face, mingling with Altaïr's and trickling down their cheeks, finding their way to the corner of their lips. As Marcella softly kissed the salty drops off Altaïr's shaky lips the Assassin refused to separate, and pushed the other's face into his own again fiercely, opening his mouth, flowing tears leaving a salty taste in their mouths, tongues rasping against each other, white teeth clanging at contact.

The passionate kiss was broken as Marcella cried out and pulled away, moving his hands to Altaïr's backside and hiding his face in the crook of his lover's neck, sobbing uncontrollably, embracing the precious man tightly, closing his eyes, not wanting to let go. Altaïr did the same, cried along with the Templar, holding him equally tight, a nagging feeling in his gut, telling him their time was short. Too short. They both inhaled the other's scent one last time, Marcella memorizing the spicy, manly scent of the east while Altaïr memorized the soft, flower-like fragrance of the occident.

Angry voices broke through and both their eyes shot open, quickly breaking apart to look at each other for a second before the voices echoed again. They both franticly took off in the same direction, Altaïr slightly ahead, dragging the Italian man by the hand, knowing he wasn't as quick as him.

They sprinted through the streets like chased rabbits, pushing people aside and breathing heavily, still holding onto the other's hands as if their life depended on that and not their frantic run. Altaïr lead the way to all the shortcuts possible for the heavily armed and handicapped Marcella to take, but the following voices did not fade in the slightest. On the contrary, they seemed to grow louder and louder, throwing both men into a panic that constricted their throats, cutting off the air they needed to keep on with their race against danger. When they reached a gap Altaïr thought to be dark enough, he dipped into it, harshly pulling Marcella along, trying to melt in with the wall. The Templars ran past. They stayed there for a few agonizing seconds, panting, both still holding tight onto the other's sweaty hand. While Altaïr could still bear it, Marcella was simply wiped out.

"I did not even realize they were drawing so close." Altaïr murmured between his pants.  
>"Mm." Marcella contemplated the bright street with a worried frown, "We are getting slower."<p>

After a few heavy breaths, he brushed sweat off Altaïr's brow, who kept his gaze on the opposite wall that was dangerously close to him, making him feel trapped. He, who was more used to the vast roofs of the city. Marcella's hand dropped to his side and he leant back his head, looking up into the bright-blue sky, realization dawning upon him.

He felt as if his legs were going to give out from under him. His teeth clenched and he wanted to cry out at the torturous bites in the upper parts of his legs, like the feeling of bolts twisting themselves into his flesh. Everything below his knees he barely felt anyway. Stupid legs, they were good for nothing. He wished they would just fall off. He gave a strangled groan as his head started spinning at the sensation, the torment too much for his brain to take, and Altaïr shot him an alarmed look.

"You cannot run any further, can you?"

Marcella leaned against Altaïr's shoulder and clenched his eyes as yet another screw drove itself into his leg, muscles spasming.

"I can- I will."

In a matter of seconds, Marcella gathered his thoughts again and they started flying across his mind, impaling themselves in a wall of conclusion.

"They're going to come back." the Templar rasped and paused, as if reconsidering something for a few seconds, "They're going to come back..."

He turned towards Altaïr whose eyes jumped back and forth between all the people on the main street already taking notice of them, glancing at them, unsure and slightly surprised. He was sure one of them would give them away sooner or later. Marcella still contemplated his lover with tender eyes, but he frowned, troubled, and squeezed Altaïr hand as if he was sorry.

"Go."

The Assassin whipped his head around and stared at Marcella, searching for some sign of hope in the sweat-soaked face, but he failed miserably. His lips pressed together, with pleading eyes, on the verge of breaking down in tears again, and he shook his head.

"Don't..." he breathed.

Marcella's eyes had turned hard, "You gave me your word, Altaïr."

"But -"

Marcella leaned forward, disregarding the people on the main street, and pressed a shaky, soft kiss on Altaïr's lips, "Know that I love you, my dear desert flower, learn to bloom without me... You have to. Now go!"

He pulled hard on Altaïr's hand, making the Assassin stumble further into the shadows of the narrow street while he was propelled into the exposing light of the main street. Immediately he heard the angry voices again and he took off in the opposite direction like a rushed animal. He came to the market and pushed people aside again, but they seemed reluctant, slowing him down until he reached one of the streets where fewer people paced, and he sprinted again, armor clinking, knees wobbling at every step, fists tightly clenched, arms moving in tandem with the seemingly endless cycle of his pumping legs and face distorted in a mask of pain. It had been long ago that he had given up any hope of winning this race, this race against death, but he had to buy some time, enough time for Altaïr to get away, just enough time for his desert flower... He still heard the angry shouts behind him; they had grown distinct, but by now he did not really care anymore. He had distracted them for long enough. He slowed down with a few wobbly steps and tilted his head back, gasping for air, sun glistening on his sweaty skin.

Something crashed into his back and he fell to the earth, and someone bore his knee into his neck as he grabbed Marcella's raven hair and pulled harshly, a pained cry erupting from his victim, throwing him into a back alley after a few agonizing seconds. As Marcella tried to scramble to his feet, he received a hard kick to his stomach, and he curled up and gasped for air before he coughed violently, blood spurting from his mouth. He noticed how his mail shirt did not make the kick hurt any less, yet he was just happy to be distracted from his legs for a few seconds.

"Infidel!"

He was kicked again, this time in his left side, and he tried to stand, in vain, collapsing as someone hit his side again. The air knocked out of his lungs, Marcella fell onto his fours, black spots dancing in his vision, limbs trembling, as someone kicked down on his spine and his torso crashed with the ground, crushing his lungs once for all.

"Faithless scum!"

One long inhale without reward later, he was seized and pushed up the wall, only to be punched hard in the face. The back of his head collided with the stone, but the hands crushing his shoulders didn't let go, holding him up and tightly in place. He caught a glimpse of their swords, but he knew they were not going to use them. His uncontrollable legs kicked under him as he gasped for air every time he received a gloved punch. They were going to have their fun with him. Marcella, barely conscious, only aware of the fact that he was hit over and over again, finally sank to his knees, swollen eyes fluttering open, seeing the bright light above him.

"Pater ignosce, quia peccavi..." _(Forgive me father for I have sinned.)_

"I'm not your Father and it's too late for forgiveness," a cruel voice snarled, and Marcella's head was sent sideways. The only thing holding him up were the hands still gripping his arms.

With clenched teeth, Marcella looked up at the blurry figure of the Templar, blood flowing over his forehead into his left eye, coloring his vision. He literally _saw_ rubin now. He inhaled deeply once, or rather tried, liquid from his nose filling his mouth with copper.

"Pater ignosce enim non dimiseritis nec peccatores peccatorum." he muttered, eyes fluttering. _(Forgive me Father for I do not forgive sinners nor sins.)_

He was hit across the face with a heavily gloved hand again, and this time he was sent crashing to the ground, coughing and spitting red liquid, copper taste taking over in his mouth entirely. His hand found its way to his split lips and he gingerly touched the blood, looking at it, unbelieving, mumbling quietly.

"Ignosce mihi infidelis.", he still stared at the red splotch on his fingertips, but raised his voice, "Sum infidelis infidelis manebo propter nomen tuis. Domine, tu infideles tuis!" _(Forgive me for I am infidel. I am infidel, I will stay infidel for the name of your people. My lord, you are the infidel to your people!)_

"How _dare_ you, infidel!"

Another blow across his cheek silenced him, but only for a moment.

"Patris, Tu infideles tuis!" _(Father, You are the infidel to your people!)_

One of the Templars finally snapped completely. He knelt down and seized the surprised Marcella by the collar, hitting in a regular pattern, right into his enemy's face. The clinking of both armors sounded like a song's rattle. When the soldier reached back, Marcella gasped for air and shouted.

"Templari es infidelis tuis!" (_Templar, you are the infidel to your people!_)

The clatter of the armors filled the alley.

"Tu infideli!" (_You are infidel!_)

The Templar made a place for his three followers, who immediately assaulted Marcella, who, in a desperate attempt for protection, had curled up and held his arms over his head.

"Templari ego...! Templarii in vocatur infidelis per Templarii!" (_I am the Templar...! A Templar , called infidel by the Templar!_)

He barely felt the kicks now. In his weakened state he managed to gather his thoughts again, placing the last pieces of his prayer together.

"Ignosce mihi patre Adam amare et propitius ero te in omni non amare." (_Forgive me Father for I am loving Adam, and I will forgive you for not loving at all._)

The clinking of armors, his frantic, short breaths, the bones cracking in his body, the lungs crashing in his torso and the infuriated insults accompanied his last words like a choir.

"Non omnino amare Deum. Adams amore tuo meliori te..." (_You are not loving at all, God. Your Adams love better than you..._)

In his delusions, sweat, blood and dust covering his face, eyes slowly sliding shut, blood-coated brows slightly pulled together, he finished his prayer in a whisper.

"Adam amat mi meliori te et meum amo Adam melior te amo...", (_My Adam loves better than you, and I love my Adam better than I love you..._), "Amo meo Adam ... Amo meo Adam..." he repeated, over and over, until he could no more.

(_I'm in love with my Adam... I'm in love with my Adam..._)

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><p><em>I really appreciate any kind of review on this, it's my first time I'm really, really into a story. I'm more the one-shot type of guy... I think... <em>

_Assassin's Creed and TF2 are the best things that ever happened to me, I swear. (Yeah I dare you, rage-quit! C'mon make us both happy!)_


	2. Chapter 2: Meetings

_I'm sorry people but I feel somehow disappointed of you. I mean, I'm getting views, that's nice and all, but how am I supposed to improve my writing? Or even know if you like the story in the first place? Now, I really am into this story, as I've already said, so I won't stop just to get reviews. If you don't think I need these reviews, then you might be right, but it doesn't mean I'm not happy if I get some. My English teacher, who is the awesomeness in person, praised my writing and I almost fucking** cried**, that's how happy I was. It's not only me that feels that way though. All the writers here (almost) on put a lot of work into their stories, and all they need to keep going is a little review. It's not much. But it's more than any writer could ever ask for._

_So, next time when you read a story, any story, just sit down for five minutes and let the author know you are there. Thank you._

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><p>Chapter two<p>

Altaïr did not know Templars like this. He knew them as snarling, bloodthirsty, clumsy, you name it. He had seen them swinging their heavy swords with much effort and no agility or ability to dodge his deadly stabs. But certainly not like this. Not sitting slumped against a wall, in the shadow of a tree, and reading at peace and quiet. No, Altaïr definitely had never seen a Templar like this one, dressed in half of his armor, mail shirt and the typical white Templar-tunic present, but looking as if he had decided otherwise through the process of putting it on. That man wore nothing more than skimpy, unnatural short pants made of sand-colored linen which, in addition, dipped dangerously low. He glared down at the man. Either way, he would finish him off. With clenched teeth, the Assassin readied for the jump down the tree and drew his sword.

He was in a bad mood anyway, not being able to accomplish the stupidest mission of all time. Retrieving some plans, and he did not manage to find them. They were supposed to be in these quarters but- _ahhh, _drop it.

Just as he flew trough the air, the Templar shortly stood up, not once interrupting his reading activity, and sat down two feet further away, sending Altaïr crashing straight into the earth. The Templar didn't even look up from his book. The Assassin swayed as he got up, blinking at the man as he regained his spotted vision, surprised. His left shoulder hurt; he was sure to get some bluish bruises by tomorrow. Licking his fingers, the Templar carefully turned the page.

The black-haired enemy pointed to the ground in front of him and spoke in popular L atin, "Shadow."

Altaïr growled and glared, crouching low in attack, arm behind him, holding a dagger, ready for the next blow, ready for the next kill. But nothing came. The Assassin slowed in his movement and straightened up, taken aback, mouth slightly open, upper lip pulled up at one corner, eyebrows pushed together.

"Why don't you make any move of attack?" he questioned, earning a glance.  
>The Templar did a double-take as he realized who was standing next to him. "Oh. Oh my Lord. I... I do not fancy unnecessary bloodshed...?"<p>

A short jerk of the Templars head startled Altaïr into a defensive position, but when nothing happened after a few seconds, he figured he could relax again.

"Your brothers sure do."  
>"They are not my brothers, neither are they my favorite way of entertainment…" The Templar hissed slightly before his tone softened, "That's what books are here for." Giving a short, unsure smile, he looked down into his lap again.<p>

Altaïr's left eyebrow rose and he gave a slightly smug grin. _This_- his smirk widened- could get interesting.

"Why would you rather stay in the company of an assembly of sheets than in the one of other men?"  
>"I would rather not" -the man sank down further as he bit his lip- "I think you misunderstood my words, or maybe I was not clear. I like the company of other men, more than you might understand... but that's why I fancy books. They don't lie. They don't cheat. They don't play for money, they don't kill, slay, drink, hit, penalize you, talk to you or look at you. They only tell and teach."<br>"What about preaching?"

The mans head lift and he simply stared into the empty space infront of him, his look growing vacant. It seemed like, in a matter of seconds, he had disconnected from the world and now only had his own thoughts racing in his head, mirroring in his eyes, through the foggy curtain that had closed upon them.

"If you choose them to..."

The Templar's voice was surprisingly calm and he had _somehow_ relaxed visibly, even though an Assassin stood beside him. He was ignoring the world around him. He was ignoring the danger. Altaïr's smirk dropped. _He_ was ignored, and he did not enjoy it the slightest. On the opposite, it annoyed him that this man did not fear him, for his reputation always worked to scare away people or make them attack in blank panic. When someone faced him without any anxious emotions, he felt as if he was facing a superior. _As if he was facing Malik._

In one swift motion, Altaïr had the Templar pinned against the wall with one arm and watched with satisfaction how the taller man's eyes filled with alarm. Being that close, Altaïr assumed that the Templar was from south-European origin by the slim features his face wore. Just as he took a last look at his victim, he noticed how the man cradled the thick book between them, holding it up at his stomach in a protective manner. Only to show him how useless that barrier was, Altaïr unsheathed his hidden blade, its familiar sound slicing through the air, and set its point against the volume's cover, preparing to slice through. His stare was still hovering on the Templar, whose eyes had slowly found their way downwards, and widened in what the Assassin believed to be shock. But in the exact moment when the tip of his blade broke the book's skin, the dark-haired man ripped it away, holding it at an arm's length, as far away from Altaïr as possible.

"I know the Creed. This book is innocent, is it not?"

The Assassin pushed harder against the wall, pressing his forearm against his enemy's throat, making it difficult for him to breathe. His body flushed against the other, he satisfied his everlasting need for anxiety in the widened eyes vis-à-vis, intoxicated by the wave of emotions he was able to see. His victim turned its head and pressed it against the wall behind him, trying to create some kind of gap between them, trying to escape the thick air surrounding them, yet their eyes stayed glued. It was irritating.

"How do you know of the Creed?" Altaïr hissed lowly, still staring into olive orbs.  
>The man struggled for a deep breath, "I am a man of vast reading."<br>Altaïr clenched his teeth and bellowed, "Do not lie to me, Templar! Your bloodthirsty brotherhood does not own any book taking into account that Assassins even exist! There are no books telling of any powerful enemy, because you are too blind to admit!"  
>"There are," the Templar looked to the side, exactly to where he held the book.<p>

He inclined it a little for both to see and Altaïr almost dropped his weapon. The title was in Arabic. The Templars must have kept it after one of their raids, even though they were not able to read the calligraphic writing. Or were they...?

"You can read?" He loosened the vicious pressure on the Templar's throat.  
>"...No, of course not," the Templar answered mockingly, receiving a hard push and a menacing glare. "Yes! Yes I can!"<br>"Is there anyone else...?" Altaïr could not finish. If Templars could read Arabic, they were sure to find his brotherhood soon.  
>"No... Why? Are you afraid of the consequences?"<p>

Altaïr's attention snapped back to his victim who did not look helpless in the slightest.

The twisted smile playing tugging on the edges his lips and the twinkle in the man's eyes told Altaïr that _he_ was not afraid of the consequences in any way.

Altaïr held the European in place for a few seconds, wondering if he should just finish off what he had started, blade still ready to strike. But he let go and only silently watched as the man slid down the wall, the only sound filling the air being the one of his mail-shirt scraping at stones. He stayed immobile for a few seconds before slowly setting the book in his hand back into his lap, gazing at the Assassin who hovered over him. Hesitantly looking away, he concentrated on his volume again, opening it at a random page, skimming through a few more before finally settling to the paragraph he had been looking for.

Altaïr, realizing that he was so close to the man that this one had both of his legs on either of his aggressor's sides, stepped back. For a little while longer, he contemplated the Templar, how he was blinding out his surroundings so obviously, face calm, half-lidded eyes scanning the text. Even his body was relaxed again, back against the wall, posture slightly slouched with muscled legs pulled up a little, and the mail-shirt and tunic sliding up again to reveal skin only slightly lighter than Altaïr's. At every steady breath, the Templar's stomach lifted beneath his short linen-pants, which, once again, dipped dangerously low and gave away a light trail of black hair wandering too low for Altaïr to see the rest of it.

..._Why _was he noticing things like that?

Somehow, Altaïr found himself more fascinated than aggravated this time. This man's life had been threatened only a minute ago, yet here he was, relaxed again, having realized that the Assassin meant no harm anymore. He respected that.

"You seem like an intelligent man. Why did you join the Templars?" Altaïr asked.

The man glanced up, fixing Altaïr in his hidden eyes, then his book again.

"They have books. Lots of books."  
>"Which, for the most part, have been stolen."<br>"I know." The man sorrowfully lifted one edge of the page for the other to see the hand-written Arabic script. "None of the Templars have the divine ability of writing your language. At least not how it should be done, with patience and success."

Once again, Altaïr was slightly struck by surprise. He had never heard a Templar praise his people's abilities, neither had he ever heard a Templar admitting of his own lack of ability. Normally, he was more stubborn when it came to decisions he had not made, but he was slightly happy that he hadn't killed the man immediately.

Wow, he really must be moody today.

"If you want to read my language so bad, why not just buy your own scripts?"

The man smiled a little, shaking his head. When he looked up at Altaïr again, the afflicted expression he wore astonished the Assassin.

"Can you imagine an European man buying a book in one of your markets at times like this?"

A heavy silence pushed down upon them.

"I know my people; some merchants would still trade anything against money, obvious to the fact of who the costumer is."

The man looked up, mouth in a tight line as he stared at the Assassin.

"You assume that, only because I am of European origin, I have got the money needed to charm a merchant? Prejudice is a sin, _my brother_."

At those last words, Altaïr had the sudden urge to jump back to the man's throat and just finish him off slowly and painfully, but in the back of his head, he knew he could not yet do that. Do not hurt the innocent. How he hated these words sometimes. Since the Templar was yet still innocent, Altaïr having not witnessed any violent act or knowing of them and his own bloodlust had vanished, leaving his mind clear and sharp. _My brother_. He could not believe it. How did that filthy Templar even dare.

"Did you ever kill someone?" Yes. Answer yes. Admit your guilt.  
>But the European man did not even think about it twice before he said, "No. I do not see why you inquire."<br>"Do not lie," Altaïr hissed, taking a step forward, looming over the man again. "All Templars have killed once, they are soldiers, they were made to erase lives."  
>"That is not true. You are assuming too much about something you do not know enough about. I cannot fight. I am no soldier, I am an architect. The armor is only a… formality. And as you see" -the man looked down at himself with an amused smile- "I do not even respect it."<p>

Altaïr sneered, a mischievous smile crossing his features. Was the Templar lecturing him again? He could not believe it. This man sure was the most insolent, ignorant, outrageous and- ...in a good way most tolerant Templar he had ever met. Somehow, he was persuaded that this man was capable of mathematics and geometry and all the other fancy things you needed to be an architect. But he decided to push his little game only for a while longer.

"Architect, huh? I am sure that I do not know any building you were in charge of." He lowered his head to hide his smirk under the shadow of his hood.  
>The man lift his eyebrows slightly and chuckled, "I am sure you even invaded quite a few of them! I always make sure to build a secret entry, you know…."<p>

The Assassin smiled. Yes, it was quite stupid of Templars to always build hidden tunnels in their fortresses and doing nothing else with them but forget. It was quite ironic that his own brotherhood did _not_ forget them and that he himself _did_ use them.

So this Templar knew about the intrusions, but chose not to do anything about it? When he even laughed about the matter... maybe...it was just a _joke_ to him? A _game?_ Altaïr's thoughts could not wander further, as the man spoke up again without glancing up at him.

"Does the name Marcella Alejandro de Piers ring a bell?"

Hidden in shadow, Altaïr's eyes widened. The picture of Al Mualim standing in his cool office crossed his mind.

_I want you to get the plans for the newly-built Templar fortress in the north of the city. They lay in the architect's quarter, a Templar named Marcella de Piers._

Marcella Alejandro de Piers. Here, right in front of him. So the man was indeed Italian, like the Assassin had assumed. It took a few moments for Altaïr to realize this, and the fact that the architect seemed to tolerate him. The Assassin had been in the quarters already and he had not found these stupid scrolls. However there was, somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought that pushed itself forward more and more, wanting to be spoken out loud since the first time that Altaïr had heard that peculiar name.

"...That's a girl's name."  
>"And you think I'm not aware of that? My God.… Just call me Alejandro if you please."<p>

Apparently, Altaïr had hit a nerve.

"So tell me, Marcella, I heard you keep plans in your rooms, is that true?"  
>The Templar paid no attention to the book sitting in his lap anymore as he frowned, "Yes..."<p>

In his mind, Altaïr already shouted victory.

"...I did until recently. I burned them. All."

At those words, Altaïr could have sunk to his knees and cried out in despair. There it went, his only chance to restore his honor. Al Mualim would degrade him even more, maybe even strip him of the title of Assassin, declaring him unable of even the simplest and stupidest of all missions, dismiss him as overrated and send him into the far corner of the middle of the hot, sandy, nothingness of nowhere. Why exactly him? Why? _Why?_

"Why?"  
>"Because I heard word someone was after them."<p>

Only when Marcella answered his question did Altaïr even realize he had voiced his thoughts in one simple, desperate syllable. And the way the other had answered, honest and direct, he was sure the words were meant for him. And a moment ago this man had playfully talked about forgotten tunnels in Templar buildings that Assassins used. He had talked about it as if it was a game of hide and seek. Altaïr scoffed.

"Well, since you already seem to know that it is my brotherhood that wants your plans, there is no point in hiding it. You successfully ambushed my mission." He had wanted to hiss the last part but held back, instead stepping closer.

"Always at your service, my brother," the Templar replied coolly.

_My brother._ Altaïr already felt a deep passion of hatred for these two words.

"Do not think I give up so soon. I am sure you did not burn your scrolls, they are far too precious." The Assassin crouched down to approach the other's face, threatening, speaking low, "Tell me where they are."

Marcella stared at him blankly and Altaïr held the stare without difficulties. He just fixed the contrasted orbs filled with dark green, a few yellow and lime-colored specks, watching how curiosity spread in them, watching how the pupils switched from incredibly small to wide open. And then, Altaïr could almost not believe it, the Templar's eyes shone in a mix between realization and pure happiness.

"You really seem keen on getting these plans. Even though I told you, I burnt them." Marcella offered an apologetic yet frisky smile, which Altaïr did not manage to wipe away, even when he leaned closer.

Nose to nose, eye to eye, Altaïr inspected the man seriously, who seemed rather amused by the actions. The Assassin glared and grit his teeth, which unfortunately passed unnoticed because of his hood, as he concluded that Marcella was indeed speaking the truth, even though he wore a playful smile and there was this faint glimmer in his eyes.

"But I have an offer to make."

At that exact moment Altaïr concluded that, _yes, it was all just a game to him. Hide and seek._


	3. Chapter 3: Past Times

Chapter 3 

In the first minutes of the dim morning, it had promised to be a good day.

Orlando had woken up, slowly, had opened his eyes, and had breathed the fresh air. Someone had left the window open. He stood up, stretched for a bit and, glancing at Leonardo snoring in his bed, picked up his clothes. Throwing his shirt on the bed for later use and securing his brown pants, he made his way to the door to step into the court. With a stifled yawn he walked over to the middle of the garden where stood a well and pulled on the rope to retrieve a bucket full of freezing water. Ignoring how cool it was, he dunk his hand into the wooden recipient and splashed the water onto his torso.

He went on with his morning routine by rubbing away any sweat that remained from the mission he had been on the previous day, rinsing his arms, face and neck, feeling a prickling sensation under his skin when his body woke up. From the corner of his eyes, he saw two young maids fawning over him, but he paid no attention to them. They knew that he was never interested _and would never be anyway_, for reasons he liked to keep to himself. When the water in the bucket was only a few inches high, he took it one-handed and dumped the rest of its content over his head, shaking out his brown locks of hair vigorously, throwing his head back.

It was only then that he saw the black tower of smoke reaching into the pale grey sky. It took him a few moments to realize what exactly it was. Frowning at it, he jogged back to his quarters and pushed the door open, taking a deep breath, taking notice the faint smell of cold ashes. It was not often that both Leonardo and Vinnie weren't on mission while he was there and he would have be the only one to get sweaty and dirty while he would help extinguish the fire... but today should be his lucky day.

"Hey! Leonardo!", he walked over to the giant and shook him awake, "Leonardo my morning sunshine, ashes block your divine rays!"  
>The other man turned to him, sleepy and irritated, "What..?"<br>"Come on my brother, there is a fire on the east side of the river, we've got to help." with a pat on Leonardo's back, Orlando turned around to wake Vinnie.

He froze in his movement. Under tangled sheets and a small pillow he could not see the familiar sleeping form of Vinnie. The bed was _empty_. In his head, a mechanic was set into movement before it made 'click'.

With a _'Holy Christ!' _Orlando dashed to the door, taking the stairs next to it and on the second floor, ripped open the first entrance to Marcella's dark room. He ripped the thick curtains open to let in the faint morning light and made his first move by looking through all folds the big bed had to give hastily. The boy was_ gone_. With a few big strides, he was franticly searching everything for the teenager, even looking under the table and double-checking behind the curtains, but luck had left him by now.

He stormed out of the room again and crashed into a woman. Recognizing her as Marcella's mother, he took her by the upper arms, then shoulders and held her in place, causing her to frown in a way only a worried mother could frown. He looked into her eyes and moistened his lips.

"Is your boy already up?"  
>Angela responded with a small voice, "No, not that I know of."<p>

Orlando let out a frustrated groan and his hands left Angela's shoulders, covering his face instead.

"What?" she asked, even more concerned.  
>The man muttered another curse under his breath and turned to her again, "I trust Vinnie is not on any mission?"<br>She shook her head, "No, he is not. He told me and my husband he had other business to attend to today and asked for a day of rest. We granted him his wish."  
>"I sadly have to announce you that I do not think he had any serious business in mind." said Orlando, a bitter undertone in his voice.<br>"Do you mean...?"  
>"Vinnie is gone and he took the boy."<br>"Not again!", the woman stomped her foot on the ground as her voice grew louder, "I had told Agapito to chase that man away, I had told him! Vinnie wears clothes made of trouble, his path is made of fire and who is the one to get the burns? My son! It is as if Marcella was Eve and Vinnie seems to be nothing more but the poisonous snake! He is the-"  
>"I am sure that the services Vinnie gives otherwise are more than satisfying.", Orlando paused and watched as the mother opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind, closing it quickly.<p>

He knew that Angela did not really hate the young knight, she was just a little... paranoid. She had the constant urge to protect her one and only treasure, her son. Sometimes she went a little overboard while at it, Vinnie was even used to a hard slap in the face from time to time, but he always claims that 'in the name of my good Lord, it was well worth it'. ...Yeah, maybe she didn't hate him, but she did not entirely like him either. When she wasn't shielding her son away, she was ignoring Vinnie anyway.

Orlando stepped a little past Angela and sighed.

"There is a fire nearby, I am helping to save what I can.", a grin drew on his lips and he chuckled, "Who knows, maybe Vinnie's path of fire crossed the one of his bad luck..."

Orlando gave the worried mother a reassuring smile before his own words had their full impact on him. His smile dropped and he turned pale, staring at Angela in shock.

_'Who is the one to get the burns?'_

Good Lord, maybe the paths had really crossed. Her eyes widened in horror and she gasped, gathering her dress to run off with Orlando, towards the stairs, and while she entered yet another door to the right, the knight already ran to the exit.

He turned and ran towards the cloud of black ashes, knowing something had gone wrong, terribly wrong. As the distance between him and the villa grew larger, he could hear the sound of a bell fading out. The moist grass wet his feet and cooled them to the point where it wasn't soothing anymore, his pants growing wet. But the freshness in the air faded with every rushed stride he took. His legs ached already, his thighs clenching almost painfully, not used to the early morning exercise. Half an hour ago he had still slept safe and sound in his cot. Who knows, maybe half an hour ago, Marcella had slept safe and sound in his bed. The smell of smoke was growing stronger, rubbing his throat raw, therefore invading his lungs, intoxicating his freshly rinsed body, clinging to his hair. His short, panting breaths mixed with the sound of hot blood drumming in his ears threw him into a steady rhythm, hypnotizing him to the point where he almost forgot why he was running in the first place. While his wet skin grew cold, only an inch away from the surface, his insides flamed up and he ran, ran, ran the fastest he could.

But he ran further trough the fields where harsh stones cut his sole, straight forward, nearing the dark cloud, up the small hill where he slipped, getting up in a rush.

When his senses came back to him, he already stood on top, head spinning and vision blurring, trying to regain his composure and orientate himself. The smell of fire already stung in his nose, so no wonder he found the source of it at the foot of the hill. Unbelieving, he stood there, staring at the abandoned stable that stood on fire, watching mouth agape how the flames lashed out and ate the wood, squeezing it in a vicious grip until it turned black.

_'Who is the one to get the burns?'_

The real impact of this inferno hit him at once, hard and unforgiving, crushing him with realization, and he wanted to fall to his knees and beg the Lord to just end it right here, right now, just so that he didn't have to watch. He hadn't done anything wrong, had he? He wondered if it was sin that he questioned Gods purpose so often and if he was unworthy, when he remembered that he was an infidel anyway. With the thought of 'I am infidel' swimming in his mind, he watched as life was squeezed out of one of his best memories.

And as his eyes jumped back and forth between different spots that all stood in flames and oozed dark smoke, he caught a glimpse of Marcella and Vinnie.

_'Who is the one to get the burns?'_

Gasping, he broke into a run again, halfway sliding down, ignoring the sensation of hotness clawing at his skin and sweat running down his face and bare torso, clinging to his pants, trying to slow him down. He almost stumbled at the foot of the hill and he joined the coughing Vinnie kneeling on the ground with a hand on Marcella's shoulder. While he put his hands on Marcella's cheeks and inspected his face, the boy muttered incomprehensible words, over and over again, stressing Orlando without knowing it, without wanting it, with a never-ending mumbled chant.

Orlando felt the teenagers soaked once white shirt, dirty with ashes, and his hands ran down the boys face and neck again, checking his temperature, knowing it was way to heated. The boy wasn't even coughing, he was weakly gasping for oxygen, rattling breaths shallow but long, interrupted by his mumbled chant, chest rising and falling only slightly, his green eyes fluttering as if he would just fall unconscious at any moment. Vinnie gasped himself and looked in a poor condition, grime gathering on his forehead and ashes darkening his clothes, but he was still strong enough to cough the smoke out of his lungs. The air around them stung, piercing their lungs and skin. Orlando looked up at the other knight, glaring, furious, and did not hesitate a bit when hitting Vinnie square across the face.

"YOU IDIOT!"

Orlando wanted to throw himself onto Vinnie and just hit him again and again to take it all out, but he stopped himself just barely, knowing it wouldn't help. The younger man laid on the grass, groaning, and held his stinging cheek, muttering something that Orlando did not understand because a pillar in the stable collapsed, sending them a wave of heat. Out of instinct, the knight leant over Marcella to shield him away from the heat.

Vinnie repeated, voice raw and croaking but louder this time, "River!"

For once, he was right: they had to get out of here. Orlando took the initiative and sat Marcella up, who tried to help as far as his strength and consciousness went, and slipped his arm around his back, hoisting him up.

_'Who is the one to get the burns?'_

The teenager gave a heartbreaking groan as his hand searched for support, settling on Orlando's shoulder and digging his nails into it with a force that his savior wondered where it came from as yet another drawled sound escaped his cracked lips. He finally coughed weakly and thick blood splattered on the knight's chest, almost entirely black with ashes.

"Huh, rubin..." the boy muttered in a hypnotized state, fixing the opaque liquid that had left his lungs.

After sending Marcella an irritated look, Orlando turned to Vinnie that stared at him dumbfound, visibly having an inner fight wherever to stand up or to just fall back and lay there until death. Even though it ripped his throat, Orlando took a deep gulp of air.

"Come on!" he shouted, loosing his voice and patience.

As if awaking from a trance, Vinnie immediately scrambled up, stumbling as he joined his friend and held onto Orlando's shoulder as support, not being able to stand entirely on his own.

When he turned around, the orange morning sun blinded him and Orlando was forced to squint his brown eyes. Slowed down by the unequal expanded weight on his body and his aching muscles, he limped around the burning stable, that was just one big, hot inferno, forced to withstand the unbreathable air filled with ashes and hotness. He pulled at Marcella's waist and readjusted himself a few times throughout the painful walk to the nearby river, and had to help the other knight up once, feeling a sharp sting in his arm.

When they finally reached the flowing river, he knew it was not over. The worst was yet to come. Dragging both barely conscious men, he stepped into the water, a sharp cry erupting from his mouth. In comparison to the hot air near the stable and around him, the fresh water felt like ice on his bare feet. In a moment like this he was happy that the water reached only to a little past his ankles.

He looked up and squinted his watering eyes to see how far he would have to go when he slipped on a loose stone, his immediate worry being Marcella, but he was able to regain his balance in time, somehow Vinnie managing to help. Even though the worst had been escaped, his knee had hit a rough stone and it now bled down his leg.

The burning in their sweaty backs pushed them to go faster, even though every muscle in their bodies hurt, ached and screamed for rest, all the way through the freezing river.

Orlando had difficulties to keep Marcella at his side, as the boy constantly slipped from his grip, and his arm wandered further up, causing Marcella to cry out in pain. Not stopping, water biting at his feet, the knight fearfully shot a confused to Marcella's back and his heart stopped at what he saw right between the teenagers shoulder blades. There was just one big crimson mess. _Blood_. Holy Christ, blood everywhere! A wide gush slashed across his back, black at the edges and deep-red in-between.

_'Who is the one to get the burns?'_

What in the name of god had happened? Had something on fire fallen onto the teens back? No wonder Marcella had cried out, there was blood splayed out all over his back, soaking his shirt, Orlando's arm fitting in by color already, and what was that? Orlando's face distorted in a grimace of disgust and pain, pain he felt for Marcella, for the condition the boy was in. A sting pierced his chest and he felt himself chocking at the tightening feeling, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. It just looked so horrible. How did the boy keep conscious that way? And then there was this fear that invaded Orlando to the point where he began to shake.

Was this the end? _What if_ this really was the end...?

His eyes staying fixed on Marcella's cut the whole way, Orlando finally pulled everyone on land, barely standing. He watched as both fell onto the fresh grass, seeking coolness and seeking rest, all of them panting and dirty.

He weakly watched as Marcella clawed the vegetation and pulled at it, pressing his face into the ground before weakly coughing up black colored blood with one of his quiet groans. The viscous liquid splatted on the teens lower lip, drawing out to the ground. The knight had a full view of Marcella's injury now, but he wanted to look away, his face twisting in disgust and pure fear. He instead focused on something else.

The boy's face was caked in a mix of ash and sweat, a smear here, a smear there, and his thin lips were split, slightly bleeding, parted to breath much needed air. He was panting now, feeling that the air around him was fresher, cooling. Smoothing. Even though it was soaking wet, his raven hair stood on his forehead, framing his face.

Trying to ignore the slash on the back for at least a moment, Orlando wondered how he could have missed the first signs of maturity this familiar face showed. The stronger jaw, the longish face, the cheekbones that were sure to develop. He took all of that in. Orlando wondered how in the name of god he had missed actually the fact that Marcella was growing taller and that firm muscles started to show at his neck and shoulders. All of this he took in. He should have noticed, the boy was either around him or he was around the boy. Orlando wondered why he only saw it in a moment like this, when Marcella was in the worst condition he had ever been in. Heavily breathing he stood over the boy and took the decision to pay more attention to the boy, before he would become a man.

Because when Marcella was going to be a man, Orlando knew he would not become like Vinnie, he would not be dependent on him.

The information spread in the mans mind. He would lead a life without him, take on the family business, grow rich and find a woman to make a family on his own. As much as Orlando didn't want to admit it, Marcella would find a woman to make a family on his own. He would find a woman. The thought twisted his insides in anguish.

But the thought Marcella would not even grow old enough to do so was even worse.

Orlando already wished Marcella would always look up at him the way he had when he had still been a little kid. Always, even if he was to be taken soon. He already missed the small boy, even though he knew he was not entirely gone yet. Only a spur was left, but it would fade and finally fall into oblivion through Marcella's final stages of growing-up.

Still, he would never forget those shining green orbs and that little blush the boy would try to hide behind his sleeves, head slightly inclined downwards and only those olive eyes staring up at him in awe. And the way he had hid behind his mother first, then finally behind Orlando himself when strangers were in sight. The way he had hid away, shy and fragile but always in the mood to cheer someone up when in need, something sweet and caring laying behind those averted eyes. For some time, Marcella had awaken the strange urge inside of Orlando to settle down and have kids on his own, but that was before he had realized that he simply couldn't bind himself to a woman. He couldn't trap himself and tighten the ropes by having a kid with his ward.

There were things the man would never ever forget. Memories that he would cherish, probably for the rest of his life. Orlando saw the picture of young Marcella again, hiding away behind him and clutching the leg of his linen pants, glancing at him before settling on simply staring with glistering orbs.

The kid always had stared as if he was a glory god of some sort, with these wide, open eyes, Orlando remembered those orbs like nothing else in the world. He could remember their exact color, the size of the pupils, their look, the way the light hit them, but the feelings they had triggered in him were gone, its memory stinging more and more every time he tried to recall those loving emotions. Yes, he would miss the little kid the way he had been, but he would never forget...

Unnoticed by the man, the teenager's eyes fluttered open and he looked up at the knight... his knight in shining armor.


	4. Chapter 4: A New Challenge

Chapter 4 

His fingers ran over the stone, searched for a crease and as soon as they impaled themselves in it, he pulled himself up with ease, the toes of his right foot already finding the next support. The fresh air wipped around him, it smelled of sea and tasted like salt, it dried his throath, but Altaïr didn't mind. Actually, he loved it. Incredible, a week ago, he would never even have thought about climbing this wall. He was glad he had discovered it.

He loved it to be nothing more than a wandering dot on this majestic wall, having the feeling he was beating a more powerful enemy in its own game, the cliffs underneath him, in constant attack of the waves, thinking that _maybe_ if he was to fall _by accident_, he would have a chance of survival. _Maybe_ the water would catch him and he wouldn't crash down onto the rocks, shattering current life into pieces. He was in a constant bet with the cliff, and he had accepted the provocative challenge with a smile on his face, defying his enemy with the most precious thing he had: agility. He adored it to see his enemy face to face, its stoic face merely an inch away. He adored it to the point where he would devote himself to climb the wall in his spare time _without_ having the goal of reaching Marcella's window.

Even though he mostly ended up there anyway.

Like now. Ugh, how he hated it sometimes, that stupid instinct. He pulled himself up one last time and not-so-elegantly plopped on the sill with a 'Umpf!', flat on his stomach. He did not bother to stand up immediatly, only turned on his back for a few seconds to sigh before sitting and swinging his legs into the room. As always, he did not take off his hood.

"You did not check if I was alone," a voice said, calm and steady, yet not accusing.

Still, Altaïr turned to Marcella with a glare, Marcella who sat at his desk, all kinds of utensils, pencils and papers scattered out infront of him, Marcella who never meant any harm, Marcella with that small, frisky smile playing around his lips, Marcella whose eyes tackled Altaïr. These eyes, beside the forming grey hair at his temple, stood out like nothing else in Marcella's face. The man had fairly light skin for an italian man, which contrasted to the dark rim of his orbs, nevertheless harmonized with the lighter tone near the pupils, which was dotted with specks of gold and streaks of olive green. Contrast and harmony, never had Altaïr seen both dance so violently in ones eyes.

"But then again, you hardly ever do," and Altaïr snapped out of it, focusing on Marcella _in general. _He was sure the Templar had noticed how he had zoned out. Damn those eyes. _Once again._  
>"And you hardly ever have company." he stated back, enjoying the smile widening on Marcella's features.<br>"True, my brother." Ugh. _My brother._ There it was again.  
>"I told you beforehand I do not like you calling me like that. It is as if we had both agreed to the same pact."<br>The other man loomed over his work again and shrugged, "So we did not?"

_Ah yes. That pact._ Altaïr had almost forgotten what bond held them together. That little offer the architect had made him, the trade of the plans against... a service. Which one, Altaïr had no idea. And it made him uncomfortable. He had sworn to fulfill _one, only one_ of Marcella's future wishes. He did not like it, but he would have to do it, since he had sworn. He would not break a vow. He never did. It was one of the few things which he liked to stay true to.

He took a few steps towards the desk and was behind the working architect in a few seconds, looking over him to the scrolls which were straightened and splayed out on the wooden surface. The Templar did not interrupt himself, took a ruler, quickly traced a few precise lines, set it back and proceed to use his pencil to draw details manually, placing his second hand on the scroll to retain it from budging. To his left there were some smaller papers Altaïr did not quite understood, full of numbers and notes, and he pushed a small gyrostat to the side. He leant forward to inspect the equitations further and make some sense out of them, setting a supporting hand next to Marcella's. He almost retreated when the black haired man twitched his head.

These twitches and ticks happened quite frequently, Altaïr should have been used to it by now. But he never seemed to grow accustomed to the idea that one could not entirely control their body.

The architect seemed to be looking for an utensil when he took notice of Altaïrs hand next to his. His movements grew slower until the stopped and his soft gaze settled on the long fingers. The fingertips were scared and the rough skin wore scratches, both telling of the expertise climbing the Assassin did on a daily basis. Only Assassins could have such betraying hands. And that missing finger. It was a painful reminder of Orlando every time Marcella saw it. It was something that hurled him back into the good old times, when the whole world seemed to be a potential friend and not foe, or rather when there was no world beyond the wavy horizon and he had his friends, his brothers and his love... The good old times where he could still run on fresh grass, times in which he could still properly _run. _All gone. Everything. Could he ever replace it all by something similar? He wished for it.

He missed it so much that he had never even noticed he missed out on some things in the present time.

His wrist jerked outwards. Dully, he reached for the utensil Altaïr had pushed away earlier. And he almost took the others hand, to hold it, to close his eyes and savour the moment. Only because four fingers instead of five were so familiar to him. Instead his slender fingers curled around the object he had retrieved, and brought it to the paper he was working on. His upper arm tensed up shortly once.

"Are these...?" A voice asked, curious and inquiring, yet not pushy.

Marcella looked up and smiled, his glinting eyes telling everything, answering without the need of words. Altaïr only looked down at him, face blank. Out of instinct, the architect gazed at where he suspected the others eyes, and he felt himself inspected. Often- ...No, always, he was uncomfortable with not knowing exacly where Altaïr's eyes were.

"I have to admit, it is... astonishing how you can recall every detail."  
>The Templar shrugged as if it was nothing, "I do not. I visit the fortress before I draw it down."<br>"...Everyday?"  
>"No... not... everyday..."<p>

The Assasssin stayed immobile for a few seconds and Marcella knew, _he knew_ that the man was staring back at him. Even though he could not direcly see Altaïrs eyes, _he knew_ for sure of the stares that were too intense to be intentional, not like his own, which passed unnoticed. _He knew _of all the times the other let his gard down it was because he was eager to enter the room. _He knew_ that Altaïr was curious to the point where he would come up behind him and study all the sheets over his shoulders almost _everytime_ he came into the room, but Altaïr sure wasn't curious about the plans and numbers, _no,_ he wasn't curious in _that_. And none of them were stupid.

Only Altaïr was so oblivious to it all. It was almost cute, if it just wasn't this annoying.

It dawned upon Marcella that he would let his manipulative side show if he didn't find any release anytime soon. He did not want that.

_(Or did he?) _

At the flash in Marcella's eyes, Altaïr finally noticed he had let his mind wander and he snapped out of it visibly. He hesitated, even though he could not remember the day he had started _hesitating, _about what to do before he settled on leaning against the window-sill. It had already grown dark and cloudy outside, which sent a colder gleam inside, but there were enough lights lit in the room to keep it bright. Marcella's head twitched sideways once again.

"Is anyone growing suspicious?" he asked.  
>"No," Marcella kept on drawing, "and don't change the subject...!"<br>"Which subject?" scandalized, Altaïr pushed himself off the sill.

Amused, Marcella turned in his chair towards the other man and _smirked._ He never smirked! NEVER! Marcella only smiled, sure, there were variations, but _smirking? _That was Altaïr's thing! What had he done that such a devilish smirk showed on the Italian features?

"You-" Altaïr stopped himself and lowered his tone, "_Ouscout._"  
>"...Oh no you didn't." Marcella chuckled and turned his entire chair, "Go to hell."<br>"What? You understood?"  
>Marcella lift an eyebrow, "I was reading. An arabic book. The other day."<br>"_Titi _Templar, or this will end bad for you."  
>"<em>Alegri, allegri<em>, ha-ha." The architect mocked, grabbing a glass and a bottle from under the desk.  
>Altaïr smirked and shook his head, "Go to hell too then."<p>

With a swift motion, Marcella poured himself a glass of vine, setting the bottle down on his desk and, silently watching Altaïr, sipped his drink. The flickering lights played on the Assassin's white robe, colouring it darker. His eyes jumped to the Assassin's hand and stuck there. He sighed with a smile, not believing that he still ached for Orlando when he caught a glimpse of four fingers instead of five. It wasn't even the right one missing.

"You remind me of someone...", it slipped past his lips.  
>Altaïr's fingers flexed, "Who?"<p>

The Italian leant back and slacked on his chair, his eyes finding interest in the deep-red liquid in his jug and his wrist setting into a rotating motion, shaking the recipient. He did not ponder about if to tell Altaïr or not, he knew that already. He only wanted to wait a bit.

"Someone from back home...", he mumbled absent minded.  
>"...That was really informative."<br>"Yes, I know," Marcella took a sip of his vine with a wicked smile as his eyes darted from side to side, and the Assassin suspected him to play _that_ game again.  
>"And could you define 'back home' for me?"<br>The other smiled amused, "_Italia._ Do not tell me you have not guessed that by now. ...I lived in vast grasslands, far, far away. These lands were endless."  
>"Endless...", Altaïr leant his head back, "Yeah, I can picture that."<br>The response he got was a scoff, "No, I don't think you can. You probably cannot even understand what it is like, ontop of a hill, on the fresh grass, and thinking about nothing, just... letting time pass away. Then being reminded by the nagging feeling in your gut that the moment is over."  
>"That sounds more painful than blessed."<p>

The Italian shook his head, letting his lids slide shut, and a smile crept onto his lips. Altaïr watched, silently, and watched the curve of these thin lips, trying to figure out wherever it was sad or satified. In the end, he never even came to the conclusion that the smile had been stuck between both emotions and even more, drawn by melancholy.

"I loved these moments nontheless, these hours spend ontop of the world, seeming like minutes.", Marcella's eyes fluttered open, "They were lush and the soil around me was rich in life, showing what nature had to offer, the horizon was always ahead, the breeze fresh, yes, I loved it. And the sun burned. That was the only thing I hated. I still do."

"Then you definitly chose the wrong place to move to."

Marcella looked up at Altaïr, somehow surprised, and they, disregarding their pact, shared a sudden laugh. Their eyes met directly and Altair cast his face downwards to rub his hair underneath his hood. It was unusual for Marcella, but he felt like it would be natural for the two of them to share a glass of vine. Or two. I had been long since he allowed someone to drink with him, but that was because he had just never found anyone suiting.

He promptly conjured another glass, "Let us drink to that, brother."

Altaïr's face dropped and he shook his head, furrowing his eyebrows, but a curve sneaked on his lips nontheless. _Drink? Marcella? Was that a good idea?_ Last time he had drunk something with an acquaintance it had not ended well. _Cough_Malik_Cough. _And they could be_ caught. _They were not _untouchable. _Annoyed that he did not get any response, Marcella rolled his eyes.

"_Che palle!_ No one would even notice if I would god damn decay in here!"  
>Altaïr moved towards the man, "That is because you always work."<br>"I know."  
>"And you never have any company."<br>"I know."  
>"God, do you even have friends?"<br>Marcella inclined his head and pulled and eyebrow up, "Do you?", he replied playfuly.

Altaïr's hearty laugh filled the room, and he grabbed the simple jug from the others hand, dropping down onto the hard bed, feeling completely comfortable with it. He felt like being sloppy from time to time, and he was allowed to, wasn't he? So it was often in Marcella's company, what did it matter? His eyes slid shut. The light was warm through his eyelids. He did not know what it was what made him like this, but he was okay with it. Even more than okay. He could not read Marcella and... was... okay with it? Was he?

"Stop pondering, my brother. Breathe," a strange but familiar smell filled his nose, "_breathe."_

It was only then that he noticed something was held under his nose and he caught Marcella's wrist, irritated at first. His eyes snapped to the other man and they locked, as he made the move of sitting upright, still not letting go of the wrist he held firmly. And then, in this little moment of negligence, Altaïrs hood slid back over his dark hair, and revealed his face. His second hand flew up, only a second too late, feeling smooth hair and his smile fell, replaced by an expression of shock, with his eyes wide open and his soft lips slightly parted. Marcella openly gaped at Altaïr, for the first time seeing these rough features entirely.

The firm neck joining a strong jaw parted by a slight dent in the middle, full lips with that uneven scar, slightly lighter than the honey brown skin around it, Marcella had already seen. It had already been enough to make him ache for more. The sharp nose also, he had already managed to catch a glimpse of. But further, this broad cheekbone contrasting with the longish face, along with the perfectly straight bridge of the nose, giving in into a perfectly even forehead, traced by short cropped hair, with the same color as timber, Marcella had never seen. _And those eyes. _Drop dead gorgeous. Hard, unforgiving, dotted by strong eyebrows.

Never in his life Marcella had been more amazed. And, staying rooted on his chair, he leaned in closer and closer, completely swallowed by dark hues, slowly, a smug smile tugging at his fine lips, disregarding the fact that Altaïr's eyes hardened, sending him a glare.

This attitude, these moods- Ahhrg! It was frustrating! How could the thought of relaxing around this man even occur to him? Finally noticing that he still held the others wrist, Altaïr pushed it away roughly.

Going with the movement of his arm, Marcella casually slouched over the back of his chair. His eyes never left Altaïrs, even as his hand lift to his nose, rubbing digit and thumb together slightly to inhale the dry friction of the herb he held.

"You have to stop that."  
>Marcella had already pipe and matches at hand, "Stop what?"<p>

Only for a second they glanced away, those deep eyes, before they stared back at Altaïr, rummaging with something new. Through the open window came a gush of cold wind that hit them sideways, blowing the thick string of smoke away from Marcella's face, tugging at his raven hair, revealing his glowing eyes. A second later, the wind had whipped out the candles in the room, leaving the torch near the door on its own. The tip of the long pipe kept glowing, as did the Templars eyes. Marcella leant forward again, propping up his elbows on his knees, before taking another drag, orange glimmer floating infront of him.

"Stop what?"

There was a storm out on the sea, and it send its wet, salty breath towards them, trying to strangle off even the last light, but it struggled, flickered. Altaïr still watched, no, _stared _at Marcella's orbs of variated greens and yellow specks, his glare only slightly softer, and observed, tied by suspense, how the pupils struggled endlessly between wide open and barely visible. They stayed fixed on his own.

"Stop what, Altaïr? This? I paid for it. There's a certain price I pay for it to be safe. It's my everyday medecine, it sooths the pain. And I heard your brotherhood takes profit from this god-sent wonder offering, right, _Hashassin?_ ...Stop? Why should I, _my brother?"_

The dim light flickered along with these green eyes. The Assassin wasn't even sure if they were talking about the drugs anymore. He only peered into these lush orbs before him. And then it hit him like lightning. The storm raging outside, it was also in those eyes. Constant struggle, a wicked smile, glowing eyes, daring, provoking him to try and see for himself. A warmth stirred in Altaïr's gut, telling him something... _someone _ was challenging him.

And you know, Altaïr _loves_ challenges.


	5. Chapter 5: Sharp Blades

Chapter 5 

"Wow, this is the first time I **do not **see you working..."

Marcella only spared a short glance for Altaïr before fixing his own image in the mirror on the wall next to his bed again. There was a low table to the left of his chair, set up with a creamy white basin containing some clear water and a clean cloth. The European set the sharp tool in his hand back to his jaw and scraped carefully. Pressing his lips together he gave a short sound of approval.

"Shaving, huh?", the Assassins eyes imitated the shaving-knife as it sparkled.

A pause gave the other the opportunity to interfere, but Marcella only took hold of the soaked cloth and wiped the skin he had just freed of hair. When he threw it back into the basin with a splash, sparkles of water flew in all direction. Altaïr's eyes stopped dead at a drop on the pale skin, followed its path down the raven-haired mans jaw, where it stopped right before the small beard the man wore, and observently stuck on the fulgent drop as it trailed further. It stopped for a second at Marcella's light collar before resuming its way and trickling onwards, dissapearing. The Italian was wearing the same as usual, plain long-sleeved shirt and soft, dark-blue pants.

Altaïr passed a hand on his rough chin dreamily, his eyes never leaving the spot right above Marcella's collar. His voice was hollow. "I need a shave..."  
>"Then shave," Marcella muttered, barely audible.<br>"I cannot spare the time."  
>"Always something to do, always on the rush." Marcella dipped the blade in water. "You <em>should <em>spare the time."  
>"I have a duty," Altair hissed, "You... well, you sure have enough time on your hands. You and your brothers are always clean-shaven."<p>

With a short yelp of pain Marcella slumped down, one hand clamped over his mouth, a "God damn it...!" escaped his lips. Altaïr watched as the Italian wiped his chin with his hand, frowned down upon it without second thoughts before he beheld of the dark smear on it and his eyes widened. For a splitsecond he thought he could see pure horror in Marcella's glossy iris, but then this one shut his lids close and it was gone. Before the Assassin had been able to grasp it, the terror had vanished. Water splashed when the raven-haired man dropped his hand into the basin, eyes still shut tightly. He gave a strained sigh, and the smear of blood marking his palm first left his skin in swirls, then dissipated into the water, yet not enough to tint it red.

Marcella stayed fixed, left forearm abandoned on his lap, second arm hanging down, dipping into the clear water, both limbs like dead. The fingers in his lap weakly curled around the sharp tool he had used as razor. He was not sitting like his usual self, not with straight back and smug smile on his lips. Not with the sufficient pride that usually surrounded him. Not with the relaxed features he usually wore. Not with the gleaming eyes he usually watched Altaïr with. His eyes had glossed over, recalling memories of the past. He had changed. That day he had changed. _That day..._ _The blood. The heat. The crunching of the house as it wooden bones were crushed._

His head turned to look at Altair, "They are _not _my brothers."  
>Altair only snorted. It was no lie, but it was no truth either. "If you despise them so then leave this life behind."<p>

The blade suddenly played in Marcella's hand. It turned and gleamed. He was watching it, again with that toughtful frown, all while the blood on his cheek trickled downwards. There _was_ an easy way out.

"Maybe I should." What would he leave behind? Nothing. A few silent monuments of war and abandonned tunnels squirming with rats and filth. "Do you really use these hidden passages?", he asked.  
>Altair hesitated, slightly perplexed by the sudden question. He knew what the Templar meant. "I've told you before."<br>"So you do." Marcella raised the knife in his hand higher into the gleam of sun coming from the window. "You know," he said, turning his attention to Altair, corners of his lips tugging up lightly, "I wish I was you. Young, vigilant, agile. I wish I could walk properly. I wish I could yeald a blade."  
>It took nothing more, Altair slipped his hand and took out a short knife, stepping forward and holding it out silently. He saw how Marcella's eyes sparked up dangerously at the sight and he forgot how foolish this was. "Every man can yeald a blade."<br>Marcella raised his hand and wrapped his hand around the sharp end. Altair waited for the man to pull lightly, but he did not. "Some men do not deserve it, you are aware of that."  
>"Do you doubt my judgement?" Altair almost sneered.<br>Marcella looked him dead in the eye, "If you were pull back now and cut my hand, I would not blame you for doing so."

Despite the words, his grip tightened, just enough not to draw blood. It would not matter what he said now, he could hold speech over speech about violence and bloodshed, it would not change a thing. It would no change the carnal excitement stirring deep inside. He _wanted_ the blade. He could pull back now, Altair thought, he could. For only a second his own hold tightened. A lethal weapon in the hands of a Templar, in the hands of Marcella. Altair did not think anymore, his heart beating in his chest. He knew of the power a weapon could give, sending one down a dark path littered with bodies, swelling one's chest with pride. Altair could sense something familiar in Marcella, something he too could feel. And then he did something he had never done before.

He let go.

The handle slid from his hand and the shortknife switched owner. As Marcella held it, Altair could not help but stay a little more and watch. It was beautiful to see a man completed by the blade. He took his leave soon enough though, a flutter of white robes and a blur of red taking off to the window. Not stopping at the words of thank behind him.

Thank you, _Assassin_, it rang in his head, even hours later. He could still hear the taunt in the voice.


	6. Chapter 6: Fights

Chapter 6

Marcella, sitting on his usual chair, contemplated his work for a moment before leaning over to continue. Behind him, the younger man was lurking around. Again. The Assassin walked up and down, as if he could never stand still, as if standing still would kill him. He was restless and, worse of all, he was curious. The Italian sighed exasperated when he had to interrupt his work again as Altaïr made a noise near his nightstand. With some difficulties, he ignored the commotion and set his mind into drawing mode to go back on his parchements. He then heard the shuffling of feet behind him and knew Altaïr had settled back to endless walking. Patience coming to an end, he set his pencil down and crossed his fingers.

"Can you sit down for a moment?"  
>"No."<p>

The answer was short and sharp, an Assassin did not take orders if it wasn't from a master. Anyways, he did not feel like sitting still. Did he ever? Hm, now less than ever. It was frustrating.

He was frustrated. All this waiting and waiting, what was he supposed to do? On every mission he had been at, he had thought of ways to make this man hurry up. Malik would not buy his lies forever, one day he would mark the mission as failed. That could not happen. His restless steps were fuelled by the frustration of the realisation that everything, his mission, his future, his rank, was dependent on the annoying cripple who called himself a Templar, Marcella. If those delicate hands did not draw these maps quicker, it would all crumble apart. His plan. He wanted to be the best. Better than anyone before or after him, so that stories and tales would form around the Eagle of the Brotherhood, so that he could be above it all.

And then there was this cripple. A stranger to his deadly ways, able to block the path to a golden future. It made him angry, it made him frustrated, it made him so many thing at once he couldn't tell one from the other. All was jumbled up inside of him, rumoring in his stomach.

So he kept on taking steps all across the room, their echoes bouncing off the walls. He had to keep thinking to find a solution. Impossible to stop, impossible.

"You do know that it does not matter how many times you run against a wall, Altaïr, it does not budge."  
>"What do you mean?"<br>Marcella let out a short breath, "I mean, that you, my brother, disturb my work."

Suddenly, Altaïr appeared next to him, leaning on the table. The architect first glanced at the papers the man crushed underneath his hand, then up at Altaïr's face, where his eyes stayed glued. Much to Marcella's pleasure, he wore his hood down, showing his handsome face. Only that that face was crunched up in anger. So much the better. A small smile tugged at Marcella's thin lips.

"_I_ disturb your work." He could tell Altaïr was becoming aggravated with him. He could tell now even more without the hood hiding him away.  
>"I need silence. Quit shuffling around, my brother."<br>"Shuffling? I am not shuffling! I am walking, god damn it!", Altaïr leant forward and lowered his tone, "And I told you before, 'my brother' is no term in which to adress me."  
>"Shuffling or walking, I do not care." Marcella's stare was stern, his voice almost angry. "Sit down or leave."<p>

Altair's nostrils flared, making the raven-haired man raise an eyebrow. He did not flinch, even though Altaïr's face was merely inches away, not looking happy at all, and those hard eyes were boring into his. He faced the other man. And he waited. The Assassin bristled with anger and pulled away, turning to walk towards the windowsill. He had to get away before making use of the whole fairly creative range of his skills, sure he would rip the man apart in his anger. He was only a few steps away when he heard a steady voice speak.

"You think I am afraid, don't you? You think I am afraid of you?" Altaïr whipped around to face Marcella who sat, relaxed, on his chair and had his eyes fixed on a pencil he played with "Am I speaking truth? Tell me, Altaïr."

His name melted past the others lips so fluently that it sent shivers down Altaïr's spine. He could not decide whether they were fiery hot or icy cold. But in the next moment, he was already beside Marcella anyway and violently gripped his armrests, the Templar only responding by bringing the pencil up to his lip to tap it there repeatively, in a regular beat. With an ear piercing screech, the chair was turned away from the desk, towards Altaïr. His fingers digging into the wood, his whole body tense, strong jaws clenched and teeth grinding, the Assassin drew near. He examined Marcella more closely, until their noses almost touched. He exhaled once and the hot breath hit the Italians closed lips.

"Now you listen closely," he hissed, one finger sticking into Marcella's chest, "Your behavior is getting the best of me. I've been all nice and patient with you, but things can change quickly. Now I am not willing to suffer any of your moods anymore, understood? I want you to finish the work I have been waiting for the past days, all while treating me with the due respect."  
>The pencil stopped tapping. "Respect due to whom respect is due to."<p>

They were face to face, nose to nose, and none of them was willing to budge. But while Marcella seemed to effortlessly withstand the threats and stayed calm, pencil still resting against his lower lip, Altaïr could not stop his anger from seeping out. The air around him became hot and heavy with adrenalin, still, the other was left unfazed. His smile, amused, by what? Only he knew.

"Did I ever insult you? Did I ever even raise my voice against yours?" The man paused, his eyes still bore into Altaïr's. "No my brother, I do respect you-"  
>"Then what is this?" Altaïr almost shouted as his fingers dug into the armrests, "While other people step up to me with esteem-"<br>"They do not step up to you! That exactly is the problem!" The Italian paused and, sighing, pressed his left palm against his brow. It was true he had never raised his voice before, and it was unlike anything Altair had ever witnessed. "Oh, Altaïr... You never show yourself other than as an Assassin, do you? People know you, know what you are. Everyone, the citizens, the knights, even if they pretend not to see when you pass by in the streets, they all know what you are. They recognize you."

Palm still resting on his defined eyebrow, Marcella opened his eyes and fixed them on the younger man's. The look he sent, troubled, was in high contradiction with the frisky smile he wore. Even though it did not seem so frisky anymore.

"I hear them talking, Altaïr. It is not only by looks that they recognize you, they- they say that there is something about you, a certain aura so... much more different than any other, darker, more threatening, excessively so." An exhausted sigh left Marcella's lips as he paused once again. "Oh Altaïr..."

The smile had left his lips, leaving his clear eyes on their own. Engulfed in those loaded orbs, the Assassin stayed close enough to feel the others breath on his strong chin and the fragrance of orange-flowers, immobile. Unexpected, his throat constricted with something strange yet not new, unfamiliar only because it hardly ever came to him, and at the time when he wanted to swallow the lump in his gorge, he felt that he simply couldn't. He was unable to push this twisting in his insides away, not like at all the other times where he had managed to ignore this... Anguish. Both of them, and everything around, was swallowed by the troubling sensation, because they had become aware that something in the air shifted and was about to change. Silently, he begged Marcella not to do it. Whatever it was. Not to say anything anymore, forget about the incident and just keep on doing what he had beforehand, just keep these unforgiving lips of his shut.

However without success. Marcella had decided that once started, he would bring it to an end. Even to a painful one if necessary.

"I am sorry to say this-"  
>"Then don't! Whatever it is you want to tell me, there is no point in it! I do not want to hear it and I therefore will not hear it!"<br>Marcella inhaled sharply, "What? So you have decided to shut down any reason and cover your ears with your hands like a little kid? That is just plain pathetic!"  
>"Ah! What was that?"<br>Marcella clenched his eyes shut and ground his teeth, "What do you mean?", he hissed.  
>Altair jabbed his finger into the Templar's chest. "I meant you mocking me, that is what I call disrespect!"<br>"You...", he struggled for words, "Arab folk and your perception of respect."

Altair mustered the most offended expression he could offer, his only reason for not hitting the man was that he simply was too busy pulverizing the armrests underneath his palms. Marcella watched attentively, waiting, but Altair refused to give in. A few more seconds passed and then- ah!- there it was. Altair's upper lip twitched. Aggression. Sweet flicker of aggression.

"Yes. Even you," he said, his voice sharp and clear, "especially you, do not see respect for what it is."  
>"I do not see respect for what it is?" Altair seized Marcella violently by the collar and shouted, "You dare to say such things, next time you will not finish the breath escaping your lips! I know my people fully well! They pay me the respect due simply because they are the ones aware of the true merit of the Brotherhood! These men and women part from my way when they see me! These men and women are willing to hide me away when I need it, without a word of protest! The Brotherhood taught them respect-"<p>

"DON'T YOU _DARE_ MISTAKE FEAR FOR RESPECT!"

There it was. The older man had finally burst. Altaïr's lips had immediately shut tight, Marcella's momentarily fling of anger had vanished, replaced by stiff silence, a heavy nothing pushed down upon them. Yet Marcella was not sorry. He had spoken truth, why should he? Their heads were empty. Neither knew what to say. Instead they just kept on staring at each other with stoic expressions.

Under these lush hues of green, seeing how they reflected everything but guilt, Altaïr felt something excited bubble up deep inside of him. There it was again. Exactly that little gleam that kept those eyes alive. There was no fear, Marcella was not afraid of him. He was not afraid of death. And yet there was something else which made him strong. Always had Altair craved for that little resistance in someone else but him. But no more.

Closing his eyes, he took Marcella's face between rough hands and crashed a smothering kiss upon his thin lips; it was anything but sweet and soft. Surprised, the man tried to escape the tight hold and struggled before grabbing the hands at the sides of his face and prying them away, putting some distance between him and the Arab. With wide eyes he blinked at Altaïr, seeing how hurt and longing spread on his handsome face.

"Altaïr I-" Hadn't he wanted this? "You-" Hadn't he wanted being able to provoke feelings enough to hurt Altaïr? "I understand."

In the second following his whispered words, the younger man was already back at assaulting him. He disregarded the resistance in the first moments and pressed harder, enjoying it all the more when the Italian's hand gingerly touched his and he gave in into the hard kiss. Yes, he wanted this. Even more so, he wanted Altaïr, he wanted him so bad it hurt, yet burnt his insides in relief. Was it worth it? Yes, hurting was definetly worth wanting and being wanted. Remembering that he needed air, Altaïr involuntarily separated an inch. More he could not bear.

"Do you know what you just did...?" Marcella breathed against his lower lip.  
>"...Yes." the other responded with closed eyes.<br>"I have been waiting for you to do that for far too long."  
>Altaïr's thumb traced a fair cheek and he chuckled softly, "I have been waiting for you for far too long."<br>"Oleografico..." the Italian muttered just before placing a soft kiss on Altaïr's lips.  
>"Which should mean?" the younger man asked almost inaudibly.<br>Between short pecks and chuckles Marcella answered, "Cheesy... Cheesy..."

He could not go on as Altaïr refused to separate their lips anymore. Strong, possessive. One of the Marcella's hands found its way to Altaïr's white collar and pulled, while the other wandered up to the hardly clean-shaven face. There it traced his strong jaw, beckoning closer and closer again and again, never wanting to stop. Heavy, hot breaths escaped their lips, both too stubborn to let the other hear how desperately good it all made them feel. Marcella leant back in his chair, pulling the quivering Assassin along. Altair placed a knee on the wooden plank of the seat in order to keep his balance while letting their heated lips remain glued together, a hot shiver running down his spine. All of the sudden, he felt incredibly trapped in his clothes, so hot, just so goddamn hot, why was it so hot? Almost simultaneously, their lips parted and, even a little shyly, the tips of their tongues met shortly.

Altaïr pressed harder and buried his hand in Marcella's short hair, which was responded by a hard tuck on his collar and a mirroring of his actions by the other man. In a moment of neglect, the young man's knee slid further until it hit the back of the chair and he found himself sitting on Marcella's lap, his legs on either side of the man. Altaïr's eyes widened when the friction of the sliding movement had its full impact on him and he moaned, sending soft vibrations through his velvet tongue. The other man jerked him towards his own body and smirked against his lips when yet another needy moan escaped Altaïr. At the third moan, he threw his head back and ground hard against the hips he was sitting on, knocking the air out of Marcella's lungs. With a hungry stare towards the exposed neck before him, the Italian took a shaky breath, trying hard not to dig his nails into the Assassins narrow hip.

His eyes glazed over. "Oh my-"

Altaïr only registered how Marcella snatched his wrist and that he hit the ground with a thump, in the next second, the man was all over him, trapped just between his legs, biting his neck, one hand on the small of his back to press him close. Assassins should not be caught off guard so easily and trapped underneath a Templar's body, but Altair didn't care. His head buried in the crook of the others, Marcella nibbled on every bit of tan skin he could please, and Altaïr's hand lift to loose itself in the coal hair of which fresh scent he could not get enough of. He had been at whorehouses often enough, but never had he experienced the feeling of being pleasured like this. It blew his mind, the way the tall man sent electrified tickles down his spine and he searched for something to hold on. He found a hand with which he could interlace fingers, sending the affirmative message: Oh my God, yes!

"Aah!" Altaïr cried out as Marcella bit his neck harshly. It hurt, but the rash pleasure that came with it was much greater.

Marcella nibbled his way up to the others lips and placed a simple kiss upon them, surprising his beloved with sudden tenderness. His hand carefully left Altaïr's and, tracing their way, his fingers slid to the mans waist, resting there. He gave a few more soft kisses, but soon enough, Altaïr demanded more vivid actions again, slipping his tongue past the Italians lips, and he got an response. All while biting at his full lip, Marcella ground against him, hard. Altaïr practically screamed in pleasure, and the first deep groan escaped the depths of Marcella's throat The Assassin couldn't help but feel slightly satisfied that he could trigger such a needy groan from the other man. And it only helped to turn him on furthermore. Loosing himself in extasy, the Arab turned his face to the side with a gasp, and immediately Marcella nibbled on Altaïr's earlobe, letting his wet tongue trace just behind the ear. Feeling the waist up they were resting on, Marcella's fingers found a gap in the Assassin's robes and took the advantage of slipping past the cloth to feel more of that soft, untouched skin. Sensing how yet another part of his body was being discovered, Altaïr shook in anticipation, only waiting for Marcella to slide further down and use that skillful mouth of his elsewhere.

Earlier, he had wished these thin lips to be shut forever, now he wished them to be nothing more than parted.

But his hopes were deceived at first, because the Italian took his time exploring the tan skin, feeling the strings of muscles underneath and lightly scraping their soft surface with his nails. His hands roamed, further and further up, agonizing slow for the other, drawing pleading whimpers. Yet Marcella knew he could not tease forever. That he did not want to tease forever. He wanted to feel more along with Altair, only Altair.

And in the end, they never even made it to the bed.


End file.
